It's A Swamp Thing
by Bird2K
Summary: Based on the story 'The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp.' Dean hates this job. Ask him why. Go on. He's got a whole list of reasons. No angst, no deal but loads of brotherly snark and mucus.
1. Chapter 1

Swamp Thing

It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K

**A/N:** _This little doohickey arose from a prompt given to me by lostatc. Kim asked for a story based on the legend 'The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp.' No angst, no deal and no Bela or Ruby but plenty of brotherly snark and allergies. That was the request, this is the result..._

_Do I really need a disclaimer? Is there anyone reading this that thinks I own anything Winchester? Oh, alright then, for that one person with their hand raised at the back – I don't!_

Day 1: Dismal Swamp? Sounds Great!

Dean stomped into the room carrying coffee and donuts and kicked the door shut behind him. He was unsurprised to find Sam still hunched over the laptop tapping away; brow creased and chewing his lip in concentration. His noisy entrance eliciting no response, Dean went for another approach, launching his half-eaten donut at Sam's head and watching with satisfaction as it bounced off its target and landed on the open keyboard, leaving a light dusting of sugar in Sam's bangs. Dean grinned wickedly; that'll teach him to have such sissy hair.

Sam started and looked up; still frowning and twisting his mouth in irritation at the interruption as he picked the donut up from where it had landed, throwing it towards the bin and running a large hand through his hair to dislodge the sprinkle of sweet dandruff.

Dean shifted his features into neutral and asked nonchalantly.

"Hey Geekboy, find anything interesting?"

Sam turned and threw his scowl at the source of his annoyance; only for it to be deflected by a big brother shield of indifference as Dean ambled over to the table and continued conversationally,

"You know, if the wind changes you'll be stuck like that. Not that it'll make any difference; what with me being the handsome one an' all, anyway."

Sam huffed in response and gratefully took the offered coffee, shaking his head at the donuts, before bothering to retort.

"Yeah well, with your diet dude, enjoy the attention whilst you can. The chicks won't look twice once all those calories catch up with you."

Dean just shrugged and stuffed another mouthful in. With the life they led, he had never put much thought into the future and if he had, middle age spread would not be at the top of his list of worries. Not when he had so many interesting and fun ways to burn off the fat! A lascivious grin turned up the corners of his mouth and he waggled his eyebrows for effect as he said,

"Chicks like a little meat on the bones, Beanpole: gives 'em something to hold on to."

Sam huffed incredulously.

"I mean it, Sammy. Maybe you'd have more luck with the ladies if you tried fattening up a bit there. I bet most women are put off thinking you might snap if things get a little energetic."

Sam had been here before, and he knew how these discussions ended, so he attempted a snappy tactical withdrawal

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Dean."

But the older hunter was just warming up. Was there a better way to start the day than scalding hot coffee, a box of Krispy Kremes and a quick round of Brother Baiting? Well, there was but the absence of a flexible blonde and a can of squirty cream indicated he would have to make do with option 2. If he couldn't be _having_ sex, the next best thing was winding Sam up about it. He smirked, slipping into chauvinist overdrive: a sure-fire way to piss off Mr Sensitive.

"Why not, Sammy? You could learn a lot about attracting the fairer sex from your big brother, y'know."

"Unlike some, Dean, I don't feel the need to attempt to prove myself by jumpin' random women."

"Random men more your thing? Not a problem. Never gone down that road myself but I'm sure the basic rules of pulling are the same. Of course, I have the advantage of natural good looks. You might have to work a bit harder."

Jaw clenched, Sam ground out,

"For the last time, Dean: I neither want nor need your help attracting anyone and I don't understand why you think I do."

"Oh, I dunno, so that you could get laid for once?"

"I'm not into casual sex, Dean."

"Not into any kind of sex, far as I can tell, Dude. It can't be healthy. Don't you worry your bits will drop off through lack of use?"

Dean waved his half-eaten, honey glazed delight in the general direction of Sam's lower brain region.

"Better than dropping off through syphilis."

And how Sam managed to look both pious and pissy at the same time was beyond Dean.

"Hey, I take precautions."

A shower of sticky crumbs accompanied Dean's squeak of outrage and Sam pointedly wiped the back of the laptop down with a handy napkin and a grimace of distaste.

"Precautions? Dean, you barely even take their name."

"I always get their name! Anyway, there isn't a woman alive that doesn't appreciate being called darlin'.

Dean smiled disarmingly at the disbelief etched clearly in the furrow of Sam's drawn brows. Really his brother was too easy; he almost felt sorry for him. Then he remembered the yeti sized, muddy footprint on his baby's door from when Sam had kicked her closed yesterday and all thoughts of easing off evaporated. Instead, he moved up a gear into chauvinistic hyper-drive and aimed both Brother Baiting barrels with all the precision of years of practice and an innate love of the sport.

"I don't know why you have to take it all so seriously, Sammy. It's only sex. A bit of sweet talk, a bit of flattery, a whole lot of hot and steamy hardcore lovin' and everybody's happy."

"Yeah, well I'd prefer a proper conversation with someone I respect."

"I respect women!"

At Sam's disbelieving look, Dean became indignant.

"I do! How can I not respect a gender that is so adept at bra removal? Man, it took me years to perfect getting a chicks bra off one handed, and not only can they do that, but then they whip it off from under a layer of clothes and down through a sleeve. That's pretty impressive."

"I'm speechless."

"Yeah, well so was I the first time a woman did that and then threw it in my face. Dude, it was still warm! Of course, that isn't as amazing as this one chick I knew..."

"I don't wanna hear this, Dean!"

Pretending not to have heard, he continued,

"Her name was Sandy or Mandy or something. No, no Candy, that was it. I remember cos I asked her if she tasted..."

"Dean! Seriously – I do not want to hear this!"

"Sure you do. Anyway, the name's not the important part of the story. This chick, I swear, she must have been double jointed or something, cos she could take her thong off without..."

"Dean! Stop!"

"...and then she just flicked it at me. Nearly took my freakin' eye out, Man. Try explaining that one in the ER when you're waiting on an eye patch! Although, turns out she had a bit of a pirate thing going on as well... Wanna hear how she 'walked the plank'?"

Finally, Sam's panicked gaze locked onto Dean's ill-concealed grin and comprehension dawned. Realising he was being played and losing, he conceded defeat with a playful shot.

"You know, one day Dean, all the women you have used are going to track you down, tie you up with their lingerie and beat you to death with their high heeled shoes."

"So long as they don't talk about their feelings as they do it, Sammy; what a way to go!"

Sam just raised an exasperated eyebrow at the salacious turn of the conversation and decided to leave it for now, unsure how they'd even gotten on to the subject to begin with.

"Anyway Dean, if you can engage the upstairs brain for a minute, I think I may have worked out what's happening here."

Dean started on another donut as he dropped heavily down on the chair opposite Sam who had turned the laptop around to face him. Not waiting for his brother to read for himself, Sam started to explain.

"Right, so 4 men have drowned in Lake Drummond in the last 6 months during boating expeditions after dusk, despite wearing lifejackets and at least 2 reportedly being good swimmers. Also despite the fact the lake is only 6 ft deep. There seems to be no connection between the victims themselves, different backgrounds, ethnicity's and ages..."

"No, wait; I see a pattern: they're all idiots. Who in their right mind would want to spend their leisure time somewhere called the _Great Dismal Swamp_? I'd like to meet the over-paid marketer who thought that one up and blast him full of rock salt. I mean, they're just asking for trouble."

"Yeah, well, whatever. They're all dead now, and we need to figure out why. So, if we're working on the theory it is somehow linked to the Drummond Lake ghost story..."

"And is that still the theory we're working to?"

"In the absence of anything better, yes."

"So, Sammy, you're asking me to buy that Lake Grungy here is haunted by some idiot who thinks his dead chick wasn't dead at all but just pitching her tent in the wettest camp ground since the Everglades? And not only that but our dude then goes all bushman, and hangs in this _tropical paradise_ living on berries and roots whilst he scouts her out?"

"I think it's being haunted by him. And by his fiancée, yeah."

"OK, well that's all real normal, huh? And then he starts seeing this dead chick in the form of mosquitos…"

"A firefly, Dean"

Dean waved a hand in Sam's direction, halting the interruption to his disbelieving synopsis.

"Yeah, whatever, Sammy. So he follows the firefly, thinking it's a message of undying love before knocking together a raft which he then paddles to the middle of Lake Dirge, promptly flips her and drowns?"

Sam nodded slowly, his earnest hazel gaze holding his brother's mocking green.

"You really believe that story? The whole crazy-bushman-hey-that-firefly-looks-like-my-dead-woman- arrgh-I'm-drowning scenario?"

"Weirder things have happened than people dying whilst hallucinating. Hell, we've seen a lot of them first hand."

"Just seems a bit of an extreme reaction."

"Loss affects people differently."

"Yeah, but grief-camping? Snacking on bereavement berries and roots? Eurrgh, vegans are weird!"

Dean gave an exaggerated shudder that Sam chose to ignore.

"Look, I've really checked this one out, Dean, and can't find anything else that fits. There are a stack of sightings of this ghostly couple by dozens of different people and they all describe the same thing: a couple, floating on a raft in the middle of Lake Drummond, holding a lamp made of fireflies."

"Ok, even if the story is true and this couple has been haunting the Lake for all this time, why would they suddenly start killing people now?"

"Well, I think the story is true, at least some of it. See, whilst you were out getting..."

Sam eyed the few remaining donuts in the now ¾ empty box disapprovingly,

"...breakfast, I ran a few internet searches and found a local historical website. I did a little digging and it seems that in 1876 a Nancy Granger did die a couple of weeks before her wedding and was buried near the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp. Her fiancé, a Neil Baker, was reported missing 3 weeks later having taken off into the swamp himself, reportedly suffering from delusions. He kept telling friends that he knew Nancy was still alive and was just waiting for him to go and find her so that they could be together again."

Dean rubbed his chin thoughtfully and at the rasp realised he'd forgotten to shave in the rush to get his sugar, fat and caffeine fixes. Shrugging he decided that sexy stubble was a good look for a Wednesday and returned his attention to Sam who was still in the throes of geek passion.

"You found all that on a website?"

Sam nodded, obviously trying to keep his eagerness in check.

"Well that's handy. Does this website also say why they'd start killing people after 130 years of happy haunting?"

Sam paused before replying, trying not to look too pleased with himself. Finishing off his coffee and getting up to throw the empty cup in the bin, he stretched his arms above his head, large hands locked together and brushing the ceiling as he attempted to work the kinks out of his back. His shirt rode up a little and he scratched idly at his belly before noticing that Dean was watching him expectantly and non-too patiently.

"Any time you're ready there, Sam."

Sheepishly perching on the edge of the table with his arms crossed, he continued.

"Actually, it does."

Dean raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"So, you gonna tell me or am I supposed to guess? Cos, you know you're the only one with the freaky psychic thing going on, Dude."

"According to this website, Nancy Granger was buried beside the swamp, but Neil Bakers body was never recovered from Lake Drummond. So I started checking though local news sites from around the time the first drownings happened. Turns out a lot of boats had been getting tangled on debris in the lake so The Fish and Wildlife Service carried out some dredging and removed some earth from the bottom to try and stop it happening."

He paused again, smiling smugly.

"Guess when."

"Err, about 6 months ago?"

"Yup."

"So, you think that when they took the earth, they maybe took his remains with it?"

"Maybe. Could well have done."

And on Dean's skeptical expression he continued,

"Look, we've worked off of less and nothing more likely has come up so why don't we just go and check it out?"

"Ok. Check it out how, exactly?"

"I thought we could try and find out where all the stuff goes when it's dredged up."

"And then what? Dig through a shit-load of stinky swamp muck on the off chance there are some bones to burn in there?"

Sam rubbed his large hands up and down his thighs distractedly as he considered the options. Finally he conceded,

"Ok, no. I don't think that would work anyway."

He caught Dean's gaze and at the unspoken 'Duh' he continued.

"I don't think it would work, cos I don't think it's Neil's ghost that is causing the disappearances. Think about it: why would he be making men drown themselves? No, I think it's her. I think it's Nancy."

Dean pursed his full lips in a thoughtful pout, before nodding.

"Yeah, I guess that could make sense. His bones are removed and his ghost goes too breaking up their happy little home, or raft or whatever. So she is looking for him but keeps grabbing the wrong guys. You think she's calling to them somehow? Maybe like some kind of Siren? Making them jump overboard and just drown willingly?"

"Could be. However she's doing it, we need to stop her and it won't be as easy as a simple salt and burn."

Dean nodded again, rubbing his forehead and sniffing.

"So then, we need a plan."

_Chapter Ends_


	2. Chapter 2

The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp

It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K

Day 2: A Hair-Brained Plan

"So that's the plan then? You spent all day yesterday geeking out in the library and that's the best you can come up with?"

Sam looked at his brother; sprawled on the bed, sniffing and glaring through red rimmed eyes as if he were somehow the wronged party. Just freakin' typical.

"Exactly Dean. _I_ spent all day at the library researching. What did you manage to achieve? You 'helped' me for all of 20 minutes before you got bored and wandered off. Honestly, you make the average 2 year old look focused and patient."

"I did not _'wander off'_..."

Dean aimed for indignant but ended up sounding like he was auditioning for the part of 'blocked up guy' in the next Sudafed commercial. He carried on, regardless.

"...I was pursuing a separate line of inquiry."

Sam made a noise not dissimilar to that of a horse about to throw it's rider: a kind of harrumphing whinny.

"With the jail-bait blonde stacking the shelves?"

"Just tryin' to get a little local perspective on the case, Sammy. Besides, she was 18 and a college geek. Hardly my type."

"Oh, you have a type now? Beyond female and bendy?"

A slight smirk squeezed its way briefly past Dean's bad mood only to crash and burn moments later in a fit of violent sneezing. Screw Sam and his holier than thou attitude! Ok, so he had skipped out on the book learning for something more practical with a perky blonde. But she was a perky blonde who just happened to be a History Major at the local college, and what she didn't know about the Lake Drummond legend wasn't worth knowing. She had shown him around the town, pointing out some relevant places of interest and it had all been perfectly innocent. She was 18 for god's sake! Besides, much as he hated to admit it, this cold he seemed to be coming down with didn't exactly put him in the mood for anything else.

He snapped irritably,

"Look, what's your problem? I just spent a bit of time interviewing a potential witness for background research. We do it all the time."

"No, _you_ do it all the time. I spend hours on the laptop or in the library whilst you amble around 'interviewing' attractive women."

"It's called playing to your strengths, Sam: you work your angle..."

He dismissed the open laptop and pile of dusty books with a wave of his hand.

"...and I work mine."

So saying, he indicated himself with a double handed gesture up and down his body.

"And, Dude, I do NOT amble. It's more a laid back swagger."

Sam huffed out a sigh, mentally counted to 10 and tried to guide the conversation train back on track.

"So, did you get any pertinent intel? And I am emphasizing the word _pertinent_ there, Dean. Only you were gone most of the afternoon and all evening, so I'm assuming she had a lot to say."

"Oh she was chatty alright."

Dean didn't want to admit that he had actually parted ways with the girl at about five. His head, which had been aching all day, had felt about ready to explode by then and his eyes and nose were streaming. All in all he was feeling generally crappy and had just wanted to lay down somewhere quietly by himself and enjoy a little peace. He had ended up grabbing some zzzz's in the Impala at a local 'beauty spot'. Waking up at about ten, he had driven immediately back to a very peeved Sam and had gone straight into the shower without explanation. The hot water had eased his aching head and helped to clear his sinuses and he stood under the spray until the temperature cooled. By the time he re-emerged, the lights had been turned off and Sam was lying with his back to the bathroom, either asleep or pretending to be, and Dean had collapsed gratefully into his own bed.

Despite his exhaustion, however, sleep had not come quickly and when it did finally arrive it was broken and not very restful. He put his current ill temper down to tiredness, but that wasn't letting little brother completely off the hook. Sam and his freakin' superior attitude: maybe he needed reminding who was the eldest here!

It was at this point that he realised he had been directing a glare that would do justice to the grimmest reaper this whole time at Sam, who was beginning to shift uneasily from foot to foot.

Relenting just the tiniest bit, Dean continued more calmly.

"Look, she just showed me around town and gave me a bit more information about our dead couple. Seems like your research was pretty accurate. Everyone hereabouts knows all about Nancy and Neil and their ill-fated rendezvous in Lake Drummond."

The sentence was punctuated with a series of wet sneezes and Sam watched in mild concern as the older man groped around on the bed. Finally he found the toilet roll he had presumably taken from the bathroom some time during the night and attempted to stop the constant drip of his nose.

"You alright, Man?"

Dean glowered as best he could with tissue plugging his nostrils.

"Oh, I'm freakin' marvelous Sammy. Now, do you want to go over this sterling plan of yours one more time?"

Sam tried to reel in his exasperation as he looked at his brother. He was clearly suffering and past experience told the younger man that Dean would not appreciate this being pointed out. If there were some kind of award for turning physical suffering into snark, Dean would be a sure thing to win it. But for all the 'Sensitive Sam' taunts thrown at him, he could be surprisingly thick skinned at times and he decided to push it, anyway.

"You look like crap, Dude. Seriously, what's wrong?"

"You mean apart from having my gigantaur little brother all up in my face first thing in the morning..."

"It's nearly midday."

"Whatever, I haven't had any coffee yet, that makes it first thing to me."

Dean continued; he was on a roll and, despite his sore throat, it felt surprisingly good to vent.

"And he's giving me shit about my working practices when he spent the whole day 'researching' and couldn't come up with anything better than some lame ass, sissy plan that involves binding ghosts with love spells. We don't bring spooks together, Sam! This isn't Blind freakin' Date for the deceased! Or…Night of the Lovin Dead! We send 'em packing to wherever the hell it is the freakin' undead go when they realise they are, in fact, just freakin' dead!"

He paused, wheezing in a breath and trying not to cough up a lung. Dammnit he did feel like crap but he so wasn't gonna admit that, especially not over a stupid cold. Besides, in his experience nothing in the world worked as well as the healing properties of sarcasm.

Unimpressed, Sam asked with exaggerated patience,

"You done?"

Another wheezy sigh and a couple more wet sneezes and Dean admitted gruffly,

"Yeah. For now."

"So, do you want me to go over the plan again?"

"Go on then. Maybe it'll sound less crazy second time around."

Sam sighed. He doubted it.

"Ok. If the stories are to be believed, then this couple has been harmlessly haunting the lake for 130 years. So, the thought is that it's the separation of the ghostly couple that's causing the recent drownings, right?"

Dean looked unimpressed, but nodded.

"We can't do our usual salt and burn cos Nancy was buried in an unmarked grave somewhere on the edge of the swamp and we don't know where Neil's bones ended up."

"Yeah, I get that. But surely there's another way of getting rid of Nancy's spirit: a cleansing ritual or something? I'm just not real comfortable with playing match maker to the lonely and undead."

"Cleansing rituals are notoriously unreliable in these situations. We would still need a personal object from each of the deceased and then we would have to work out the exact location to perform it. Look, I've run this past Bobby and he agrees. If the spirits were harmless before they were split up, then re-uniting them and making sure they can stay that way, is the best long term solution."

Dean rubbed at his itchy eyes, then said with a small smirk,

"Fiends Reunited? Heh, maybe we could start a website..."

"They're not fiends, Dean. I don't think Nancy's trying to hurt anybody. She's just lonely and desperate. She doesn't understand what she's doing."

Dean raised a skeptical brow.

"Maybe not, but we do. And what she is doing is killing people, Sam."

Sam sighed and sat down on the opposite bed, facing Dean.

"I know. And that's why we have to stop her the quickest way we can. I've looked at all the options, Dean, and this really seems like the best one."

The older hunter conceded defeat and rubbed tiredly at his gritty eyes as he responded.

"Ok then. So, this ritual...?"

"Right. It's old and pretty obscure but Bobby reckons it should work. We need a personal item from both Neil and Nancy. We then go to the edge of Lake Drummond, draw this symbol on the ground,"

He held up a piece of paper containing a picture of a circle inscribed with, what looked to Dean like, a bunch of squiggles.

"...and place the objects inside it. We then have to chant this litany..."

He indicated a second piece of paper decorated with his tidy penmanship.

"...as we light them on fire and keep repeating it until the fire burns out. This should permanently bind the couple together, thus preventing this from happening again."

"And by permanently, you mean...?"

"For eternity."

"Well, lets hope that they never fall out then."

"Yeah. That'd suck."

Sam half-grinned and Dean took this as the peace offering it was meant to be. Sitting up, he wiped his hands wearily over his face and tried to reel in his defensive snark for the sake of getting this thing over and done with.

"Alright then, given that the _loving couple_ have been dead for over a century, where are we gonna get a personal possession from?"

"I've looked into that, too. The items will need to be pretty combustible as we're basically gonna be burning them on a campfire. So, I figured, paper; as in photos or books."

"Wait a minute, College Boy wants to do some book burning? Isn't that against some kind of Geek Association work ethic, or something?"

Expecting an eye roll or at least a heavy sigh, he was surprised when Sam merely replied mildly,

"Yeah well, needs must as the Devil drives, Dean. I'm sure my fellow geeks will forgive me."

Almost against his will, he found his full lips turning up in a smile to meet the dimpled grin of his brother and his bad mood lifted slightly.

"Yeah, I'll write you a note or something, like I used to do for Phys Ed at school. Explain that you're a full blooded nerd really but these are extenuating circumstances."

"Gonna need me to spell that for ya?"

His answer was a pillow wrapped around his head, and he laughed as he threw it back. Getting back to the business in hand, he continued,

"Ok, well Neil's book is no problem. Apparently he came from quite an influential family, owned a lot of land hereabouts. He kept a journal and it's been preserved at the museum in town as part of their 'local heritage' display."

"Crazy dude kept a diary? Sounds fascinating. Maybe it'll have some bush tucker recipes in for us to try out. What about Miss Firefly?"

"That's a bit more complicated. No diary or anything on display but she does still have one living relative. Her sister's great, great..."

He waved a big hand in a gesture to convey etcetera,

"...granddaughter. She lives in the retirement home in town. I figure that maybe she'll have inherited something, even if it's just a picture or letter. Worse case scenario, we could use a lock of the living relative's hair. It's not ideal, but Bobby said it should work."

"Hang on, we may have to give Granny Firefly a haircut? And you don't think she might notice?"

"That's only if there's nothing else. Like I said; it's less than ideal. Hopefully she'll have an old love letter or something."

"Yeah, well, I hope so too cos I ain't playing Edward Scissorhands for anyone."

Sam ignored him and continued to rattle off the battle plan.

"Ok, so today we need to scope out the museum, check it's security measures and work out how we'll get around them. We also need to get in to see Mrs Turner..."

"Who?"

"Granny Firefly"

Sam grit his teeth at Dean's smirk but continued.

"We need to get in to see Mrs Turner and try and find out if she has any family heirlooms lying around."

"Preferably flammable ones."

"Yep."

Dean gave a thoughtful sigh, which wheezed into a hoarse cough and left him wincing from the pain in his throat and grasping his aching head.

"Maybe we should stop by a drug store first..."

At Dean's pointed glare, Sam hastily backtracked.

"Or not. Listen, I'll go get some coffee, whilst you get yourself dressed. Then we can head out, grab something to eat and get this all over with."

Bristling at Sam's authoritarian tone, Dean snarked,

"Don't get carried away there, Samantha, remember who's in charge here."

Sam frowned and replied,

"I thought it was a partnership."

Dean's bark of laughter turned quickly into another wheezing/wincing/head clutching fit. Once he had recovered sufficiently he managed to croak out,

"Dream on, little brother!"

Sam just shook his head, got up off his bed and stalked out of the room. Leaving Dean still holding his head, nose full of tissue and staring sullenly down at his bare feet, as he curled his toes into the grubby carpet.

_Chapter Ends_


	3. Chapter 3

It's A Swamp Thing

It's A Swamp Thing

Chapter 3

Still Day 2: Allergies Are For Geeks And Girls

After another long, hot shower and rejuvenating caffeine shot, Dean felt slightly more human and confident enough to try and go without his makeshift nasal plugs. Sauntering around the motel room, collecting his various weaponry he deliberately took his time deciding what to take with him. He fought down a grin as he watched Sam out of the corner of his eye, fidgeting and tapping his fingers in his impatience to get going. Finally he snapped out a caustic,

"You know, the museum closes at 4, Dean..."

Dean's attention flicked from the shotgun in his hand towards his agitated brother, briefly lighting on the clock in between. The expression of benign innocence he had been feigning morphed into a frown, as he retorted,

"It's barely 1.30, Sam. What's the big rush?"

"Well, let's see: we still have to find the place, check the journal is actually there and then scope out the security so we can work out how to break in later without setting off any alarms. And then we have to find Swamp View Retirement Home...

"Wait. Where?"

"Swamp View Retirement Home..."

"They called the place 'Swamp View'? Seriously?'

At Sam's impatient nod, Dean shook his head incredulously carrying on with his protracted weapons inspection as he muttered,

"Freakin' marketing morons, again! I mean, what's their strapline, 'Suddenly death doesn't seem so bad?' If that isn't a reason to skip retiring and jump straight onto the stairlift to heaven, I don't know what is!"

But Sam was enjoying his diatribe far too much to be thrown off track by his brother's acerbic mumbling, and he continued as if Dean hadn't spoken.

"And once we've found it we still have to talk our way in to see Mrs Turner..."

As Dean's lips pursed to form the word 'Who?' Sam held up a hand in irritation, cutting him off with,

"...Granny Firefly. It's a lot to get done if we want to be able to do the ritual tonight. And as you've spent the morning sleeping off last nights _'re-con'_, I think the least you can do now is shift your ass into gear so we can leave this friggin' room some time in the next millenium."

Dean was taken aback by the tone and delivery for a moment: clearly Sam was a little wound up! Big brother instincts kicked in and he paused to consider his options. A brief tug of war between conscience and snark ensued with the latter winning out; olive branch evolving into stick to poke the bear.

"Keep your girly hair on, _Sweetheart_, jeeze: it's like having a nagging wife but with none of the benefits. I'm just tryin' to make sure I have everything I need."

Sighing, Sam doubtfully eyed the assortment of knives and guns Dean was holding,

"Right, about that: given our itinerary, what's with the arsenal, Dude?"

Dean gave a winning grin as he replied,

"You know me, Sammy: always prepared. I'm like a Boy Scout."

He thought about that statement for a beat, before amending

"A really kick ass Boy Scout! But without the dorky uniform and scraped knees."

Sam's eyebrows engaged in a brief dance of altercation, seemingly unable to decide whether to go up in disbelief or draw together in exasperation. Finally they conceded defeat and sloped back to their original positions, draining some of Sam's ire as they did so. He exhaled loudly and tried to let his frustration go, with limited success.

"Do you have any idea how wrong that sounds? Look, Man, can you just hurry it up? I really don't think we're gonna need much kit in a museum and an old folks home."

Reveling in his minor victory, Dean finally settled on a knife in his ankle holster and his favourite 9mm shoved in the waistband of his jeans.

"Ok, ok. But if Granny Firefly comes at ya locked and loaded, don't go counting on me to save your ass."

Dean warned as he swung past Sam and out of the room. Pleased to finally be on their way, Sam replied dryly,

"I think I have it covered, thanks."

And he followed his brother out, locking the door behind them.

wWw

As the visiting hours at Swamp View Retirement Home didn't start until 3pm, their first stop was the museum. Despite Sam's earlier sarcasm, the re-con information Dean had gathered during his walk with the history student did help as they navigated the small town streets and found their destination easily.

Drawing to a halt outside a building that boasted zero architectural merit, Sam was unable to hide his disappointment.

"This is it?"

"Yup. _The Great Dismal Swamp Heritage Centre_ and public library, in all its finery!"

Dean announced, voice dripping with sarcasm as he soaked up Sam's dismay.

"What did you expect Sammy? It's a small town. Hardly gonna be all sloping glass walls and award winning design.

"Yeah, I know. It's just, you'd think they'd make a bit more of an effort."

"Why? It's probably all just a bunch of junk anyway. Look around, Dude, we're in Hicksville."

So saying, Dean gestured the rest of the town with a wide sweep of his arm,

"Just how much _heritage_ does a place like this have? I mean, they're displaying some loony toons diary, for cryin' out loud. Hardly the Smithsonian, is it?"

As they entered through the double doors and into a poorly lit hall full of dusty relics and tattered books, Sam's face fell further.

"I guess not."

"Awh come on, Sammy! Alright, it's not Stanford but it's still educational, right? Look, there's books that no-one in their right mind would want to read and piles of useless crap being preserved just cos it's old."

He paused and took in a deep, if slightly wheezy, breath before saying,

"Can't you just smell the learning?"

Before letting out a loud sneeze.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Sam responded,

"I don't think that's learning, Dean. I think it's mildew."

The older man gave a 'whatever' shrug and continued his perusal of the hall, sniffing and muttering about all the damn dust. Sam surveyed the gloomy room; perturbed gaze flicking from one dull display to the next and it didn't take long for the brother's to spot what they were looking for. In the middle of the hall, and clearly pride of place, was a glass case, inside of which was a smallish, leather bound book engraved with the letters NJB in a flouncy, gold script. The plaque underneath the cabinet read,

'Journal of Neil Jacob Baker.

Born 1852 Died 1876'

Beneath that was a brief re-telling of "The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp" legend and Neil's reputed part in it.

As Sam read the inscription, Dean glanced surreptitiously around the hall noting the distinct lack of security measures. A lone camera blinked as it lazily scanned from one end of the room to the other but that, and the basic alarm he had noticed on the outer door as they entered, appeared to be the only concessions to the light fingered 21st century.

Catching Sam's eye he gave a slight nod towards the exit and the brothers made their way out of the building. Ten long strides down the road and Dean was slightly breathless as he said,

"So, no motion detectors, no security guard just one lousy camera and an alarm system I could have put out of action blindfolded before I left first grade. It's official: this is the lamest museum I have ever been in."

"You know, that'd probably mean more if I believed you'd ever been in a museum before today."

Dean cuffed at his dripping nose irritably before replying,

"I've been in plenty of museums, dude."

Sam just huffed and said,

"Oh, you're including breaking and entering in order to steal things?"

More sniffing combined with an impatient swipe at gritty eyes.

"Well, yeah. Why else would I go in? Places are full of cursed objects and other freaky mojo shit that'd be better off salted and burnt."

A succession of sneezes.

"Not to mention all the freakin' dust. Haven't these people heard of Pledge?"

Sam watched his brother try, unsuccessfully, to stop his nose from dripping as he gave a non-committal,

"Hmmm."

Dean gave a few more sneezes before swallowing with a wince and saying,

"Anyway, looks like getting a hold of Bushman's diary shouldn't be a problem. Now, how about some lunch before sweet-talking our way in to see Granny Firefly? My throat feels like sandpaper, and I need lubrication if I'm gonna charm a senior."

They stopped at the only diner in the little town and settled at a window table, more out of habit than any desire to watch the comings and goings of daily life in a place like this. Whilst Dean perused the menu, still sniffing and clearing his throat, Sam fiddled absently with the condiments, his right leg jigging in a preoccupied pogo as he glanced around the room. The sound of Dean enthusiastically blowing his nose on a napkin bought his startled attention, and that of the other few patrons, firmly back to his brother.

Fully engrossed in his task, his brother seemed oblivious to the soggy trumpeting sounds he was emitting. A mucus fueled gurgle was followed by hacking into the napkin and Sam could feel himself trying to shrink back into his seat, even as he shot apologetic looks to the other people attempting to enjoy their lunch. His face wrinkled in embarrassed distaste.

Dean caught his look and gave a final wipe to his nose before throwing the crumpled, and now somewhat moist, napkin onto the table with a satisfied smirk.

"Ahh, that's better."

As Sam continued to grimace at him,

"What?"

"Dude, that was gross. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I told you; it was all that freakin' dust in the museum."

"But you were all congested and drippy before we even went there. Not to mention the snoring like a walrus thing you were doing last night."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Was not. Dude, I don't snore."

"Yeah, well then you were doing a pretty good impersonation of it last night. Seriously, what is up with you?"

Dean admitted grudgingly.

"Dunno, maybe getting a cold or something. It's no big deal."

Sam seemed to consider that for a moment before saying, speculatively,

"Maybe it's allergies. Seems to be worse when we're outside..."

Sam didn't complete the sentence; the look of indignant outrage that Dean threw at him would have been enough to stop a banshee in mid wail.

"Allergies, Sam? I do not have allergies! I am in peak physical condition; I'm not some nerdy geek with pasty skin and an inhaler."

"Allergic reactions are nothing to do with how healthy you are, Dean. They're caused by your immune system over-reacting to something."

"Oh well thank you, Professor Dork-a-tron. But I think the only over-reaction going on here is with you. Jeeze, can't a man sneeze a couple'a times without being labeled a weakling?"

Sam sighed in exasperation.

"Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Lot's of normal, otherwise healthy people suffer from allergic reactions..."

"Well, that's all very fascinating, I'm sure. But I ain't one of 'em."

The brothers stared each other down like 2 cars about to play 'chicken'; Dean's driven by affronted pride and Sam's by frustration. Bloody carnage was avoided, however, when their engines were stalled by the arrival of their middle-aged waitress, bearing a coffee-pot and a look of disdain.

"Are you _gentlemen_ ready to order?"

The word 'gentleman' had a distinct ring of insincerity to it, and she eyed the crumpled napkin with disgust.

Sam shifted uncomfortably but Dean chose to ignore the inflection in her voice and shot her his gold standard, winning smile as his eyes flicked to her name badge.

"We sure are, Alice, I'm gonna have me your delicious fried chicken and potato salad."

"Err, yeah. Same here, please."

She kept her eyes down as she wrote on her pad, finally lifting her gaze to Sam.

"It'll just be a few minutes."

And then she was gone, seemingly totally impervious to the effects of Dean's charm, a blow that did nothing to improve the snuffling hunter's mood.

They ate pretty much in silence, apart from Dean's incessant sneezing. Alice came by to fill their cups once but remained immune to the older hunters' mucus-impaired charms. By the time the frosty waitress bought them their check, Dean had scaled right back to his bronze award smile, and was seriously considering giving up the podium all together.

As they left the diner, Dean was hit by another wave of sneezing and he pulled out one of the napkins he had managed to pilfer on his way out of the door. He blew his nose and then opened the tissue up to inspect his secretions, jolted from his reverie by Sam's appalled,

"Dean!"

"What?"

"Could you possibly be any more disgusting? What the hell are you looking to find?

"I dunno. I was just curious..."

Under Sam's wilting glare, Dean trailed off sheepishly and stuck the napkin back in his pocket. He cleared his throat noisily before saying,

"Right, so Granny Firefly now then?"

Sam shook his head but fell in to step beside his brother as they headed to the car.

"Yeah. And maybe you could keep the snorting and hacking to a minimum this time?"

Dean shot him a 'whatever' look as they climbed into their respective seats and headed off to find _Swamp View Retirement Home _and the last living relative of their lady in the lake.

wWw

Ten minutes later they were parked outside the only cemetery in town, staring up and down the rows of houses, looking for the retirement home.

"Are you sure it's here?"

"Yes! It's gotta be around here somewhere."

Sam did another quick scan of the streets, frowning.

"This is where that girl showed you?"

"What? Oh no. For some reason an old folks home never made it onto our list of 'must see' places of interest."

Sam paused in his search, confusion written all over his expressive face.

"So then, how do you know it's around here somewhere?"

"Well, it has to be."

"Why?"

Dean nodded his head towards the wrought iron gates of the graveyard.

"Cemetery, Dude."

"So?"

"So, you'd think the old folks home would be close to the cemetery..."

Reading Sam's look of utter disbelief,

"What? I'm just sayin' it'd make sense, is all..."

Sam's withering glare clearly conveyed _'You are freaking unbelievable!'_ as he turned away from his brother, fishing his phone from his pocket with a weary sigh,

"I'll call information."

Another 10 minutes later

As it turned out, once the retirement home had been successfully located, getting in to see Mrs Turner was surprisingly easy. She had no family left and rarely received any visitors so her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the sight of the Winchester brothers waiting in reception for her. She led them outside and they all settled around a plastic table under a parasol, drinking coffee and making small talk.

After several minutes of banal pleasantries she finally asked,

"So, are you boys gonna stop humoring an old lady and tell me what you're really after?"

Sam was slightly taken aback by her direct approach, but Dean was unfazed and simply grinned and replied,

"Of course, Gra... "

A sharp kick to the shins and he recovered himself,

"Mrs Turner. We're actually here to ask you about one of your ancestors."

The old lady nodded as comprehension filtered over her wrinkled face.

"Oh, Nancy, you mean?"

The brothers exchanged a look, which the octogenarian easily translated.

"You're not the first people to want to know about her. It's all that ghostly raft business. Goddamn marketing types will exploit anything if they think there's a quick buck in it."

Smirking even as he soothed his battered shins, Dean asked,

"So you don't believe in the Lake Drummond legend, then?"

"Oh, I know the legend is true. Grew up hearing all about 'The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp.' Mother used to tell us the story all the time and, once we were old enough, we went out to the Lake at dusk to see the ghosts for ourselves."

She took a sip of her drink and sighed,

"No, my problem isn't with the story; it's with the exploitation. Nancy and Neil were real people who suffered a real tragedy. That shouldn't be used just to sell a few more boat rides."

Sam nodded his understanding, his best harmless Labrador puppy look on his face.

"That's terrible. We'd love to hear more about Nancy, though. Get to know what she was like as a person, you know her hobbies and interests. Do you maybe have a picture of her?"

"A picture? No. But I can tell you a bit about her. Mother liked to fill in the blanks. Always said it was rounded characterization that made a good story."

The brothers smiled their twin Winchester smiles in encouragement, and so the old lady continued.

"Well, from what Mother said, she was a very lively young thing and she loved the great outdoors. Bit of a tomboy by all accounts and her family despaired of her ever settling down. It caused them no end of worry. But she was a good girl at heart and eventually she agreed to learn one 'respectable' skill to appease them. She tried her hand at a few things before finally settling on sewing. Had quite a flair for it, by all accounts. Spent hours working on the family quilt..."

The word's 'flammable family heirloom' suddenly sprung into Dean's mind and he blurted,

"Family quilt? You wouldn't still have it, would you?"

"What? Oh no. Horrible tatty old thing by the time I got it. Of course, my Katherine loved it."

"Who?"

"My daughter, Katherine, God rest her soul. She loved that thing, called it her 'raggy' and it went everywhere with her."

"Katherine is dead?"

Sam shot him a warning look at his less than subtle line of questioning but Dean just shrugged it off. His head was aching and he itched all over and it was taking all of his concentration not to scratch himself raw.

"Yes. I lost my poor baby to a car accident 5 years ago."

Sam tried to make up for his brother's blunt approach by ratcheting the puppy factor up a couple of notches. Pouring all of the warmth and sympathy he could into his voice he said,

"We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs Turner."

She nodded sadly,

"Thank you."

Sam continued his gentle prodding, trying to keep the old lady's attention on him and away from Dean who was staring at the ground like it had personally affronted him and squirming in his seat.

"It must have been terrible for you..."

Mrs Turners eye's softened with emotion and memory as she said,

"No parent should outlive their child; it's not right. She was a grown woman, but lying there, it was like she was a little girl again. My husband died when she was small and it was just the two of us for such a long time. She never married, said she didn't need to; had all the company she needed in me. I couldn't stand the idea of her being alone now. I wanted to comfort her in some way; that's why I buried her with 'raggy'."

Dean's head shot up from where it had been slumped as he tried to surreptitiously rub his eyes and resist the urge to simply pop them out and run them under a tap.

"She was buried with the quilt?"

At Mrs Turners startled nod, he continued,

"In the local cemetery?"

And Sam was looking daggers at him now, but Dean knew he understood the implications when she answered,

"Well, yes. Where else?"

Quelling the impulse to just run back to the motel for a shower now that they had the information that they came for, Dean signaled to Sam that he should wrap this conversation up.

Understanding eyes and sympathetic smile back in place, Sam turned his full dimplage onto the unsuspecting senior as he said,

"I am sorry if we upset you, Mrs Turner. Thank you so much for your time."

And the brothers rose as one and left, Dean still scratching and sniffing as they went.


	4. Chapter 4

The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp

It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K

**Disclaimer:** I keep forgetting to say that the brothers Winchester don't belong to me. I believe it's called denial.

**A/N:** Hi to Bev, my beta, who has just joined me on the darkside waves. Also, anyone looking for plot development, you may wanna skip this chapter all together and wait for number 5. Not that I'm guaranteeing they'll do anything but argue there, as well. But, if you're just in it for the banter, enjoy!

Chapter 4

Still Day 2? Really? Feels Like We've Been Here Longer...

As soon as they arrived back at the motel, Dean made straight for the bathroom, shedding clothes and dropping them in a haphazard trail as he went. Two minutes later and hot water was pounding down over his broad shoulders; washing away the itchiness whilst the steam helped alleviate some of the congestion.

Sam sighed in resignation as he picked up after his slovenly brother; slinging the dirty laundry onto Dean's bed in an untidy heap before settling down on his own bed, long legs stretched out, large hands laced behind his head and an expectant look on his face. It was time to have this whole allergy thing out with his pig-headed sibling.

Twenty minutes later, Dean charged back into the room on a cloud of steam like a damp and determined locomotive.

"Right then. I'll get dressed, we'll get some food and then we'll plan out the evening's felonies."

Sam, who had dozed off during his enforced wait, jumped at the sound of his brother's voice and let out a startled,

"Gah."

Dean glanced over with a smirk,

"Y'know, that's if you can stay awake long enough, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam sat up, still half asleep, and dragged his giant hands over his face; ruffling his mop of brown hair wearily.

"I wouldn't be so tired if you hadn't been sawing logs all last night, Dude."

"I already told ya, Sam. I. Do. Not. Snore!"

"Sure, Dean, my mistake: it must have been the lumberjacking going on next door."

"Yeah, must have been."

Dean's "yeah whatever," overly cheery attitude suddenly grated on Sam's nerves. 'Big brother' continually pointed out how he was the eldest, so why did Sam always feel like the adult? Putting on his best 'grown up knows best' voice, he pushed,

"No, seriously, Man, this has got to stop. The sneezing and the eye rubbing whenever we've been outside. The walrus mating calls at night and most especially the public nose-blowing and tissue inspections. Why can't you just admit you're allergic to something? We could get you some anti-histamines and..."

Dean leveled him with a look so icy that Sam swore he could see the breath form in front of his face, but that wasn't gonna put him off. This was Sam Winchester – Debate Team Leader, magna cum laude! And he could hold his own against the scariest opponent. Hell, he'd been taking on Dad since he was 12, and that had always been like stepping up to a particularly ill tempered grizzly and then kicking it in the jewels. So, if Dean thought a little phlegm fueled belligerence was going to intimidate him, he should think again!

Of course, a pissed off Dean was less of a grizzly bear and more of a stone wall and so attempting to verbally kick him into submission would just result in a very sore foot. No, to get through Dean's defenses, a slight change of tactic was called for and Sam decided on erosion through calm and reasonable argument.

He watched as his brother turned his back and continued to get dressed, clearly signaling that this conversation was over as far as he was concerned.

"Right, so then food. Gonna need to keep our strength up if we're breaking laws tonight."

And back to the faux cheeriness again.

_Calm and reasonable. Calm and reasonable. _ Sam kept repeating like a mantra in his head.

"Ok, we'll go get some food. We can swing by a drugstore on the way."

"No."

Calm and reasonable. Calm and reasonable. Irritation is a passing phase.

"Look, Dean, we both want to get this stupid ghost thing sorted out as quickly as possible right? Before anyone else dies?"

"That's not the point."

Calm and reasonable. Anger can be controlled and directed.

"That's exactly the point. Why the hell else are we in this crappy town?"

Dean clenched his jaw but reluctantly agreed.

"Ok, that's kinda the point. But I don't see what that has to do with you making such a big deal about me getting a slight cold."

_Calm and reasonable. A small opening, don't get too excited._

"But that's just it, Dean! I don't think this is a cold! So, all I'm suggesting is a couple of tablets to make you feel well enough to get the job done."

Calm and reasonable. He can't argue with that. Don't blow this by looking too triumphant.

And it was true that Dean wasn't arguing. His brother's eyes had narrowed to emerald slits and the temperature dropped another couple of degrees. Sam quickly went over what he'd said whilst being oh so _Calm and reasonable_. Ahh, crap! There was only one thing worse than intimating that Dean may be hurt and that was hinting that it might affect his ability to perform his role.

"I can get the job done, Sam. I've fought a lot scarier shit whilst concussed and bleeding; I could take down this swampy chick's ghost with one hand tied behind my back, so you really think a _slight cold_ is gonna hold me back?"

And it wasn't so much the words as the tone: frigid enough to make Frosty the snowman shiver and reach for the thermals. Why the hell was he even bothering? Let the stubborn idiot suffer. Sam could get himself some ear-plugs and sail away on the sea of oblivion whilst Dean snorted and grunted like the annoying pig he is.

"Fine, have it your own way. Let's go get some food."

After the debacle at lunchtime, Sam was relieved when Dean agreed to get their food to go and they headed back to the Motel room with their order and extra coffees. Once they were settled and eating, Dean began to outline the plan for the night whilst Sam sat in a sullen silence, still smarting from his earlier defeat.

"Right, so, we should do the museum first 'cos it looks like the quickest bit. Then we'll go and dig up the quilt, salt and burn the body in case we disturb the woman's spirit or something. Once we've got the bits for the ritual, we can head on out to Lake Dismal, or whatever the dumb-ass place is called, and perform that sucker. Then, we pack up and ship out of this god-forsaken crap hole of a town. Sound good?"

"No."

Dean, who had meant the 'sound good?' as more of a rhetorical question, paused in mid bite of his burger.

"What?"

"I said no. It doesn't sound good."

"What? Why?"

And Dean seemed genuinely perplexed, which might have made Sam smile if he wasn't still so pissed off.

"You're the one that wanted to play cupid to these freaks. Now you've got a problem with that?"

"No. I don't have a problem with the ritual part: I have a problem with the 'digging up an undeserving person so that we can steal the security blanket from her grave' part."

"Oh. Well sure, that bit sucks, but what choice do we have? It's either a spot of grave desecration and theft, or who knows how many more men being drowned."

Content that he had made his point, Dean continued eating. But Sam wasn't finished yet.

"No, it's not. I already told you, a lock of Mrs Turners hair would work perfectly well."

"Yeah, and I already told _you;_ I'm not cutting anyone's hair off."

"Why not?"

"Cos it's gross."

Talking with a mouth full of half chewed burger; Dean didn't see the irony and Sam wasn't in the mood to point it out.

"What?"

"It's gross. Other people's hair is gross and I'm not touching it."

There was a stunned silence in which Sam's mouth flapped open and closed as the words he needed refused to come out, made inert on his tongue by disbelief. Finally, he burst out,

"But you touch hair all the time: I've seen you! When you're picking women up in bars, you do all that head stroking, eye gazing crap that they seem to love."

Dean's face took on a faraway look as he wistfully replied,

"Yeah. They do love that, don't they? And then, if you just kinda rub your thumb across their bottom lip..."

Sam could not handle yet another one of those conversations after so little sleep and so he nipped it in the bud.

"Dean! Upstairs brain!"

Dean shook himself off and back into the present

"Yeah, well, anyway, that's different."

"Different how? Cos they're young?"

Dean's response was in the same 'duh, obviously' tone that he used when offered pie.

"What? No. Well, maybe a little... but no. It's cos it's still attached to their heads."

Blankness was not a look that sat easily on Sam's face. Even leaving aside the intelligent eyes that could impart a wealth of feeling in a single look, there were all those other hyperactive features: the hide and seek dimples, ADHD eyebrows and that wide forehead with its capacity for creasing in expressive ways. None of these things lent themselves to vacancy under normal circumstances.

But this was not normal. This was a conversation with Dean and incomprehension flitted across Sam's countenance like a vacuous butterfly looking for a perch. Finally, his extensive vocabulary sprang to his rescue offering him a retort brimming with wit, charm and eloquence,

"What?"

Dean gave him a look that quite clearly said 'And they let you in to Stanford?' as he explained, in the tone of voice he usually reserved for speaking to toddlers or imbeciles,

"Other people's hair, when it's not attached to their heads, is gross."

Sam eyed his brother thoughtfully whilst he considered his options here. His inner voice was telling him that no good would come of this and he should stop this conversation here and now. But he couldn't bring himself to lose yet another argument when he was being totally reasonable in the face of Dean's spurious logic. Because, dammit, Stanford _had_ let him in. Not only let him in but freakin' well paid for the privilege of teaching him. Dean was being irrational – _again_ – and this time Sam was determined to show him the error of his ways in a reasoned and measured debate.

"More gross than digging up a corpse for a bit of mangy quilt?"

"Duh, yeah! Way more gross. The stuff's disgusting Dude, and you find it everywhere: clogging up drains and sticking to upholstery. Some nights, I can't sleep for wondering how much hair might be stuck to my pillow."

Dean gave an exaggerated shudder

"It's revolting."

"Yeah, okay, maybe not totally inviting but, worse than a moldering corpse?"

"Yep."

"Okaaaay..."

Sam stretched out the 'ok' as long as he could whilst he struggled to find a compelling rebuttal, but the best he could come up with was,

"No, it's not!"

"Yeah, it totally is. Once it comes off your head, it's dead, Sam and that's just..."

He shuddered again.

"Eurrh."

"So, your problem is that it's dead?"

Dean seemed to weigh this up for a moment, pursing his lips and tilting his head to the side in thought.

"Yeah. Yeah, because it's dead. And because it's gross."

And surely Sam had him now...

"But you touch dead stuff all the time, too."

"Yeah, but not hair, Dude. Never hair. It's..."

As Dean paused, seemingly to find a suitable adjective, Sam's lips twitched upwards despite himself. Still, he did his best to sound forbearing as he supplied,

"Gross?"

Dean grinned at Sam like he was finally getting it.

"Yeah."

Sam nodded a few times whilst he mulled this indisputable fact over. Then, still unable to fully understand his brother's classification system, he nodded a bit more, before finally saying,

"Oh."

_Calm, Reason and Logic,_ Sam thought, as he realized he was licked again, _you're woefully inadequate and ill-equipped for the job. You're fired!_ And suddenly he was glad not to have paid for that Stanford education, for all the good it did him in the real world, well their world, which he guessed was the same thing as far as he was concerned.

"Ok, you can dig up Katherine Turner and get the quilt. But it's gonna be time consuming so I'll steal the journal from the museum whilst you do it. Ok?"

Dean didn't look at all convinced by Sam's amendments to his plan.

"I don't know, Sam. Something always goes wrong when we split up and you end up kidnapped and tied to a chair."

"That doesn't just happen to me, bro."

Dean opened his mouth to argue but Sam, sensing the imminent objection, cut him off with one word.

"Scarecrow."

Dean's mouth snapped closed for a moment before he responded,

"That was a tree, smart ass."

Sam gave a little shrug as he replied,

"Ok then, Gordon."

A muscle jumped in Dean's clenched jaw as he thought it over.

"Alright, we'll split up. But you're 'damsel in distress' routine still averages way higher than mine."

Dean paused and stared at his brother, seemingly in deep thought, before adding,

"Maybe it's the hair..."

Sam exhaled loudly but let it go. He'd won a minor victory and would be content with that for now.

"I think I'll be ok, Dean. You'll be doing the more dangerous part, anyway."

Not to mention the dirtiest and most strenuous, but Sam knew that they would not be the compelling motivations for his brother.

Finishing his second coffee as he scooped up the rubbish from their meal and threw it in the bin, Dean agreed.

"Damn right, little brother. Like I keep saying, play to our strengths: I'm the bad ass superhero and you're my geek-boy, there-so-the-sensitive-chicks-have-someone-to-go-ahh-over sidekick."

Sam let out a short laugh and shook his head.

"Whatever, Dude. Now, can we rest up? Your superhero supersnoring has left me in need of a serious catnap and we've got a full evenings entertainment ahead of us."

Dean flicked the TV on and the brothers settled onto their respective beds, trying to relax enough to catch a little sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The Phantom Lovers of Dismal Swamp

It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K

**Disclaimer:** If I were Kripke, you'd get a better cliffhanger!

**A/N: **Thanks to Bev for the beta and to Dan for knowing that Migs don't do vertical lift off but Harriers do. I married a walking encyclopedia of aircraft and weaponry, and this is how I choose to use it.

Chapter 5Day 3 – Just about: Reasons Why I Hate This Friggin' Job

Pulling into the cemetery, Dean searched for a place he could park the Impala where she wouldn't be spotted by any casual observers passing by outside the gates. Finally locating what he deemed to be a suitable spot, he cut the engine and the brothers climbed out in unison. Sam paused and watched thoughtfully as Dean stretched his arms above his head and then leant from side to side, popping the muscles in his back. As he turned to face Sam, he yawned then took a deep lung full of the evening air before dissolving into a fit of sneezing.

"I think it might be a good idea if I help with the digging."

Wiping impatiently at his dripping nose, Dean looked up surprised.

"What? Why? You were the one who was all gung-ho about splitting up to get it done quicker."

"Yeah, I know. But I was thinking; digging her up will take awhile so if I help you with that bit, then I can go and get the diary whilst you salt and burn and fill it back in."

Dean seemed to consider this for a couple of minutes and Sam waited, unsure which way his unpredictable moods would take him. Finally he shrugged,

"Ok, whatever. You want in on the man's work, who am I to stop ya?"

And so they gathered the usual grave digging supplies from the trunk: spades, flashlights, salt, gasoline and matches and went in search of Katherine Turners grave. Sam trying not to dwell on the idea that they had _'usual grave digging supplies.'_

They had found the tombstone within 10 minutes and started digging in tandem at either end of the grave. By the time they were roughly halfway down, both boys were down to t-shirts and still dripping sweat. They paused briefly to catch their breath, Sam panting slightly whilst Dean wheezed like an elderly asthmatic midway through a triathlon.

As he wiped his face with the back of his hand, the younger man threw a sideways look at his older brother, debating the futility of asking if he was alright.

"You know, if you're about to spin me some line about how pretty I look in the moonlight, save it. I don't swing that way, Dude."

Sam huffed a laugh and shook his head.

"Actually, I was just really hoping that your deodorant lives up to its claims, Dean. You're sweating like a pig."

And grunting like one too, but Sam thought that better left unsaid.

"Yeah well, that's cos I'm putting my back into it, Princess. What's the matter? Worried you'll break a nail?"

"Hey, I'm doing my share."

And as if to prove it he resumed digging with renewed gusto, 'accidentally' showering Dean in soil. Dean thought about retaliation but decided he didn't have the energy to spare and so opted for a quick cuff upside his brother's head instead before continuing with his own digging.

Finally, Sam's spade hit wood and the brothers stopped. Sam hauled his lanky frame from the grave as Dean fumbled for his flashlight and moved the loose dirt with one hand trying to find the edge of the coffin lid.

"So, I guess you can take it from here?"

Dean waved him off, absently,

"Yeah, yeah Sundance. You go do your book stealing. I got this."

"Alright. Just, be careful. Digging her up and robbing her grave may disturb her spirit, so keep an eye out."

Dean, who had managed to wrench the top half of the coffin open, threw his looming brother a scathing look.

"I think I can handle it, thanks Sam. Now get gone, I want this over with tonight."

Sam smirked.

"Sure thing, _Butch_."

Then turned and jogged away, his brothers voice following him into the dark,

"And try not to get yourself kidnapped!"

wWw

A little under an hour and a half later saw Sam jogging away from his latest crime: breaking and entering and grand theft of an historical record. Chalk that one up to the tally. And when the hell did he get so blase about the whole criminal thing, anyway?

As the Cemetery came into view, Sam slowed his pace and wiped the sweat from his face as he scanned the darkness for any sign of his brother. Slowing further to a walk so that he could get his breath back, he reflected on the jacked up exercise regime the brothers shared: running _towards_ trouble, running _away_ from trouble, digging up the bodies of ghosts that were causing trouble. Idly he wondered if they could make some cash through a 'Supernatural Circuit Training' style fitness video. He shook his head with a dimpled smirk; who'd want to see him and Dean getting all sweaty and beating stuff up?

He heard Dean before he saw him. At least he assumed that it was Dean; it could just as easily have been a pair of adenoidal warthogs in a karaoke showdown. But the god-awful racket sounded a lot like the snoring his brother had been doing for the past couple of nights. Nearing the car his suspicions were confirmed by the sight of Dean slumped in the drivers seat asleep, head back and a sound not unlike the thrum of a Harrier in vertical take off emitting from between his parted lips.

Sam slowed even further until he was practically tip-toeing, and he crept around to the passenger side. He eased the old cars door open as quietly as he could and then threw himself, breathless and sweating, into the passenger side, slamming the door behind him.

Dean jumped like he'd been electrocuted (again), his hand automatically shooting up to wipe the drool from his chin as his head darted back and forth trying to work out what was going on.

"You alright, Man?"

Sam asked cheerfully, careful to keep the concern in his voice to a minimum.

Dean just grunted, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, trying to scrub away the last vestiges of sleep. Although he had clearly been sitting still long enough to have dozed off, he was wheezing for breath worse than Sam after his run and there was a fine sheen of sweat adding to his filthy and disheveled look. Even in the dim light of the car, Dean's eyes looked red and sore. He coughed, sniffed and wiped a hand self-consciously over his face, smearing the dirt and sweat even more.

Sam's concern inched up a notch and he asked again,

"Dean, are you alright? You want me to drive to the Swamp?"

This suggestion was met by a glare that would have had Medusa herself signing up for lessons and Dean's voice was gruff with irritation as he replied,

"I'm fine, Sam, just got a little bored waiting for you, is all."

As if to emphasize his point, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking spot before continuing,

"Took your time there, dude. Everything go to plan?"

The words were accompanied by a brief glance; all Dean really needed in order to check his brother for any injuries.

"Yup. How about your end?"

Regaining his equilibrium as he drove, Dean flashed a cocky smirk, "'Course!"

"She didn't give you a hard time?"

"Nah, she was a complete no-show. Besides, take more than some dead chick to get the drop on me, Sammy."

Sam just snorted and ran his own inventory of his brother, knowing there was really no point in asking anyway. But for once, Dean seemed to be telling the truth as, apart from a few scratches visible on his cheek in the dim glow of the passing streetlights, he did indeed appear unscathed.

If Dean noticed the scrutiny, he chose to ignore it, instead asking, "So, d'you get it?"

It was Sam's turn to smirk and reply, "'Course." As he produced the small, worn, leather bound book from his jacket pocket. Dean's eyes flicked to the journal cradled in Sam's large hand, his gaze lingering on the book for a moment before returning to the road.

"Huh, looks smaller than it did in the display case."

Sam studied the tome in his hands and shrugged.

"Looks about the same to me."

It was Dean's turn to shrug as he muttered,

"Must have remembered wrong or something. Just expected it to be a bit bigger."

"Well, like I keep trying to tell you bro, size isn't everything."

Dean's lips twitched, whether in amusement or annoyance, Sam wasn't sure but after the last couple of days he decided he deserved a little payback.

Sam continued nonchalantly.

"Sometimes good things come in small packages, dude. There's no need to overcompensate with a bad attitude or a big car."

This time there was no misinterpreting Dean's aggrieved growl. Shouldn't have bought the Impala into it... Deciding it would be wise to change the topic, Sam attempted to steer towards safer ground.

"So, we have the journal," he indicated the book in his hands, "and you got the quilt?"

This earnt him a scowl.

"I already told you; yeah!"

"Ok. And you salted and burnt the corpse, just in case you digging her up raised her spirit?"

Another scowl.

"Yes!"

"Alright, so we can head on out to the lake to start the ritual tonight."

"Yup, that's the plan."

"Ok, then."

They lapsed back into comfortable silence, broken only by Dean's occasional sniffing, leaving Sam to gaze out of his side window and run through the night's ritual.

wWw

_4 hours later_

Snuffling irritably, Dean rubbed at his itchy eyes and trudged onwards. His concentration was trained on putting one foot in front of the other in a reasonably straight line and decidedly not on how wretched he was presently feeling. The marshy ground sucked at his boots as if its greatest wish was to swallow him down into its dank embrace and, three hours in to this nights hunt, he was finding it increasingly difficult to resist gravity's seductive pull.

The light from his torch bobbed unevenly over the soft ground doing little to illuminate his path and he stumbled often, sheer force of will keeping him moving and upright. No way he wanted to land face first in that stuff! Sam would have a field day, laughing his ass off at his clumsiness. And he wasn't getting in his baby smelling like The Creature From The Black Lagoon, either.

His head ached and his vision wavered as he dragged himself onwards. He had lost the energy to hum 2 hours ago and now couldn't even find it in him to recite Metallica lyrics in is head. Instead he compiled a mental list:

'_Reasons Why I Hate This Friggin' Job!' _

_Number 1; Swamp land. It stank, it stained and you couldn't swagger through it in a laid back and cool manner. Plus, he seemed to be allergic to something in the God forsaken place and his sinuses had been in revolt ever since they had arrived at their motel. _

Not that he'd be admitting that to Sam. Well, not this side of Hell hosting the Winter Olympics, anyway.

Dean did not do allergies! They were something grandmas, geeks and girls got not proper men! How was he meant to hunt and kill the bad guy if, half way through the fight, he had to stop and blow his nose? He swiped a hand at the offending constant drip of watery mucus and huffed, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

Up ahead of him, he could just make out the hulking shadow of his brother halt in his forward trudge. For once, Sam was leading the way and Dean didn't like it one little bit.

_Number 2 on the list of all things wrong with this job_:_ Sam's freakishly long legs gave him a slight advantage in the cloying gloop._ _Meaning he got to take the lead position, usually Dean's unquestionable right as older brother and protector._

Dean stopped just to his left and threw him a questioning look, which was completely lost in the gloom.

"Why've we stopped?"

Dean's voice was a nasally whine and he sniffed and snorted a bit, trying to dislodge some of the congestion.

Sam glanced down and Dean just caught the slight curl of distaste to his lip before he replied.

"Fireflies. Look."

He nodded his head towards a faint glow in the distance.

"Is this Lake Drummond?"

Dean felt so 'dismal' himself that the humor of applying the word to their destination had long since ceased to hold any appeal.

"Yeah, I think so."

"You _think_ so? What's the matter: Geekboy struggling without his GPS?"

"Hey, you think you can do any better at reading a map in these conditions, go ahead, Dean."

Sam snapped as he forcefully thrust the neatly folded paper into Dean's chest. Dean automatically reached up and took it, angling his torch so that it hit the page and squinting at the jumble of lines and place names written in a teeny, tiny font. After spending a few minutes unfolding the map and tilting it this way and that, blinking watery eyes that refused to focus, he gave in with a sigh. Half folding and half screwing it back up, he haphazardly thrust it back at Sam with an indifferent shrug.

"No need to get defensive, Sammy. Just saying, we don't get lost when I navigate, is all."

Sam snorted derisively in reply as he attempted to return the map to its former neatly packaged glory without dropping his flashlight or giving in to the temptation to beat his slap-dash sibling about the head with it.

Reason No3 why this is the worst job ever: Sam's superior freakin' attitude. Often present just below the surface, it had been practically standing up and waving ever since their arrival here.

Dean scowled again and demanded,

"What's that supposed to mean? I never get us lost, Sam!"

Sam finally looked up and Dean caught the flash of his eyes in the dim light.

"Oh no? How about that time we were tracking a black dog through the woods and I fell down a ditch breaking my flashlight and losing the map. I wanted to go back to the car and try again the next night, but you said a seasoned hunter didn't need a map anyway, and _you_ could track it using your _natural instincts and internal compass_."

Despite Sam's mocking tone, Dean nodded sagely,

"That's very true, Sammy."

"Dean, we walked around for 2 hours whilst you insisted you had everything under control; until I pointed out we had passed the same fallen tree 3 times!"

"Hey! I told you; that was tactical. Those things are sneaky little bastards and I didn't want it to backtrack and get the drop on us. Besides, we wouldn't have been in that position if you could control those giraffe-boy legs of yours, Stretch! What kind of navigation leads to you falling down a freakin' ditch anyway? The piss poor type, that's what!"

"Well, feel free to lead on then, Shorty. If you think your little legs can handle it."

Dean scowled and sniffed some more, finally relenting and blowing his nose on another of the napkins he had stashed in his pocket, before rubbing tiredly at his eyes and forehead. As Sam watched, he felt some of his irritation drain away. It felt like they had done nothing but bicker since they had arrived in this State. Dean's _allergies_ affecting his sleep and making him irritable and argumentative. And, if Sam were completely honest, he hadn't exactly been belting out a medley of cheery show tunes, either.

He tried his best conciliatory tone.

"Look, we only need to go to the edge of the Lake, just over there. You hold the torch and I'll draw the symbol, ok?"

Fully expecting a sarcastic retort about bossy little brothers knowing their place, Sam was surprised when Dean remained silent and he prompted,

"Dean?"

But his brother wasn't listening to him anymore. His head was cocked to the side and his eyes were following the firefly's light.

Because Sam's navigation had been right: this was the place and Dean had found exactly what he'd been looking for. What he'd always been looking for. And he turned and walked towards the water determinedly.


	6. Chapter 6

It's A Swamp Thing

It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K

**A/N:** Thanks again to Bev for her beta magic.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them there'd be a lot more gratuitous mud wrestling and Sam would be chanting Latin incantations every other scene.Chapter 6A Little Further Into Day 3: Well Usually I Prefer My Women A Bit Drier And Less... Dead.

It took Sam a moment to realize that his brother wasn't just being obstinate, stalking off in a huff because Sam had taken charge. By the time he worked out what was happening, Dean was already at the waters edge and had started to wade in.

Sam charged after him, taking full advantage of his race horse stride as he yelled,

"Dean!"

But there was no reaction. His brother's attention seemingly concentrated solely on the slight glow that was now almost in the centre of the lake.

"Dean!"

Still no response and Sam's heart rate increased, along with his speed and his panic, as he tried to chase his brother down.

There were days when Sam wanted nothing more than to fade into the background, when he cursed his conspicuous height and ungainly limbs for forcing him to stand out in a crowd. Then, there were times when he was ridiculously grateful for the advantage his long legs and extended reach afforded him. This was one of those times, as he managed to catch the back of his brother's leather jacket and haul him out of the Lake that had claimed the lives of at least 4 men, not including Neil Baker.

But Dean didn't come willingly; he thrashed wildly in Sam's grasp, forcing the younger man to tighten his grip even as he attempted to dodge his brothers flailing arms. It was a lucky elbow to the chin that sent Sam sprawling but he did not loosen his hold on his brother, pulling him down along with him. The wrestling continued on the wet ground as Sam desperately tried to think of a way to subdue his brother without hurting him too badly, all whilst avoiding being injured or knocked out himself. He kept trying to get through to him, hoping his voice would reach past whatever had enthralled Dean.

"Dean. Dean, stop Man, it's me. It's Sam. I need you to stop. Please, just stop."

Finally, Sam managed to pin his brother, once again thankful for his superior size as he wrapped his arms and legs around the older man, holding him down until his struggles slowed and then stopped and he seemed to relax into the embrace. Without loosening his hold, Sam attempted to ascertain whether his brother had regained control or merely exhausted himself.

"Dean?"

A wheezy grunt was followed by a sudden stiffening of Dean's body and Sam prepared himself for a second round of mud wrestling.

"Sam?"

His brother sounded breathless and confused but it was the first time he had spoken since the whole impromptu swamp swim meet had started. However, Sam still didn't loosen his hold.

"Yeah, it's me. You alright?"

Dean seemed to take a moment to consider this.

"Err, yeah, I think so. Except... except I seem to be pinned in stinky swamp mud by a Yeti. What the Hell's going on, Sammy?"

Sam allowed himself a small sigh of relief and he gave a tight smile despite the growing ache in his locked muscles.

"I don't know, one minute we were arguing and the next you'd gone all vacant and were hell bent on taking a midnight swim with Nancy and her firefly. I was trying to stop you, but you weren't listening so I had to haul you out and pin you."

Sam felt Dean nod against his shoulder.

"Oh. Right. Doesn't explain why you're still holding me down in the mud though, Sasquatch. All this fresh air making you frisky?"

Sam huffed a laugh that ruffled the top of his brother's hair as he cautiously let go and climbed to his feet, joints protesting the movement with audible pops. He reached a hand down and helped pull the older man up as he replied.

"Don't think it was me looking to get a little action, Dude. If I hadn't been here, you would totally have been doing the dead man's breast stroke with our own little water wench."

Dean scowled at his brother as he continued his relieved teasing,

"I dunno, Man. You've done some pretty desperate things before to get laid, but this...?"

He shook his shaggy head in mock disbelief.

Dean continued to scowl as he looked from his brother, to the lake and then down at his sodden and mud caked clothes.

"Ahh, Man. Look at the state of me. What the hell were you thinking; rolling us around in this muck, Sam?"

"Umm, I was thinking, 'maybe not a good idea to let my brother go spirit swimming in a lake where men keep drowning.' And I am just as filthy as you are, Dude."

Dean let out a long suffering sigh.

"Yeah, well if you think you're getting in my baby looking like an extreme spa treatment gone wrong, think again. You can walk back to civilization and a hot shower. Put those freaky legs of yours to good use."

"Yeah, and what are you gonna do?"

Dean looked down at himself once more and then shrugged.

"Strip."

Sam quirked a brow.

"You're gonna drive back naked?"

"Why not? Ain't like anyone's gonna see. And even if they did, who'd complain about getting an eye full of this, eh?"

As he spoke, Dean walked past Sam, back towards the abandoned duffels, smacking him on the chest as he went by. Sam frowned in thought,

"So why can't..."

Dean spun and faced his brother, holding up a hand to halt the words, aghast.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no. Don't even suggest it, Sammy. You are not sitting on my baby's seat without pants. It'd be a... a violation."

Sam pursed his lips, trying to look annoyed and exasperated, rather than amused. He narrowed his eyes and nodded as he said,

"Right. You'll drive back naked leaving me to walk the whole way smelling like a sewer? Nice way to thank me for saving your life, Dean."

"Dude, don't be so melodramatic. You don't know that you saved me. I wouldn't have drowned. Jeez, you said it yourself, Man, the Lakes only 6ft deep."

"Yeah, meaning I could stand up in it, not you, Titch. Besides, didn't make any difference to the other guys, did it?"

"Ahh, guess not."

Dean cocked his head; his dirty face serious and full mouth pouting in concentration as he scrutinized Sam. A moment passed and he nodded slightly, flicking tiny splatters of stinking swamp slime towards his frustrated sibling before concluding,

"Ok then, as I'm such an awesome brother, you can have a lift back. But your muddy clothes go in the trunk and your underwear stays on!"

"Yeah, well yours too, Dude. You have an unhealthy relationship with that car and I don't wanna see just how much you enjoy driving her. I have enough scarring mental images without adding that one to the gallery."

Dean just shrugged as he turned and continued on towards the duffels, throwing over his shoulder,

"So, we gonna get this ritual done or not, Sammy? Ain't got all night, y'know."

Sighing heavily, Sam strode after his brother.

wWw

"Could you concentrate on what we're doing, Dean? And keep the damn flashlight still."

"Look, I can't help the sneezing, Dude. Maybe if you hadn't gotten me quite so wet..."

Sam stopped in his drawing of the symbol long enough to glare up at his brother from his awkward crouch.

"Ok. One: you were sneezing _before_ you got wet. And two: _I_ didn't get _you_ wet. _You_ got yourself wet. _I_ then got wet rescuing you. Clear?"

Dean sniffed indignantly.

"Ok, ok, keep your girly hair on. Are you nearly done yet?"

Sam had transferred his concentration back to the job in hand, finishing off the last parts of the symbol.

"Yep, I'm done. Now we just need the book and the quilt and the incantation."

"And the lighter fluid and matches."

Dean enthused, and the gleam in his eye was noticeable despite the darkness.

"Dude, sometimes I worry about how much you enjoy burning stuff."

"Nothing wrong with enjoying your job, Sammy."

"Yeah? Well that all depends on what the job is, Dean."

As he spoke he stood, wiping his dirty hands on his muddy pants before realizing this would be unlikely to make them any cleaner. Shrugging it off, he opened the duffle bag wider and began to unload the rest of the required ritual elements and placed them in a neat row beside the perfectly constructed symbol. Dean watched in silent amusement as Sam folded the ragged edge of the quilt over to give it a straight edge and then aligned it with the journal and the bottle of lighter fluid.

"Anal, much?"

"What?"

"What's with the nice neat little row, Dude? Can you say OCD?"

"Bet you can't even spell it."

Dean scrunched his face in confusion.

"What? That doesn't even make sense."

"Can we just get on with this? I'd like to get out of this damn swamp sometime tonight. And preferably without having to fish your heavy ass back out the water again!"

"Ok, alright. Just thought College Boy would have had a better comeback, is all."

But even as he spoke, he was helping place the journal and quilt in the centre of the circle and covering them in lighter fluid. Sam pulled out the piece of paper containing the incantation and, flicking a quick glance at his brother to make sure he was ready, he started to read.

Duos animus traho seorsum rejoin ut unus

_Linked iam nunquam futurus laxo_

Dean threw a match onto the pile, and it ignited quickly with a pleasing 'whumph.' His eyes watered as he watched the firelight flicker and he thought _'damn smoke'_ as he absently rubbed at them, mesmerized by the radiance and his brothers mellifluous chanting. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a small light, dancing closer and then skipping away and his attention drifted to that as Sam's voice maintained it's steady cadence, never once tripping over the Latin.

Without conscious thought, Dean's stance shifted with his concentration so that he was facing away from the circle and more towards the firefly as it continued to hover just outside of the circle of light the fire had created. He watched in fascination, as it darted back and forth, almost like it was pacing, as impatient for the ritual to be done as the brothers were.

Gradually the firelight dimmed and the firefly drew back, drifting towards the Lake once more. Sam continued to repeat the chant, no longer needing to read from the paper, his attention too was fixed on the tiny, luminous bug's flight.

By the time the fire had burnt out completely, the glowworm had made it all the way to the middle of the lake where a larger incandescence was forming. As the brothers watched, dark spots could be seen in the light which gradually joined together to create a small, flat surface which seemed to float on the water.

"Is that..."

Sam began,

"Looks like a raft, yeah."

Dean replied, never once taking his eyes from the action on the water. Because now, 2 more shapes had appeared, just above the first and the scene before them shifted in and out of focus. Like tuning in TV reception so that a fuzzy, black and white channel becomes clear and in colour, gradually, the shadow theatre they had been straining to see coalesced into the image of a man and a woman, standing on the raft. The couple stood facing each other for a moment and then Nancy sat down and reached up a hand to Neil, who took it and sat beside her. The glow that had surrounded the proceedings gradually receded to be replaced by the light of dozens of fireflies, congregating in the shape of a lantern as the ghostly raft and it's reunited passengers floated silently away.

"Wow."

Sam's eyes were wide with awe.

"Yeah."

"That was..."

"Pretty impressive, yeah."

"I was gonna say beautiful."

Dean looked at his brother's earnest face, then around at the dark and dank marshland and finally down at his smelly, mud coated and still damp clothing. He shot him a skeptical look.

"Course you were, Barbara. Now, how's about you wipe that manly tear from your eye and give me a hand packing up so we can get out of this hell hole?"

Sam frowned in annoyance at yet another new nickname and started to scuff over the circle and symbols with his large foot.

"You know, it's no wonder you can't manage more than a one night stand: you've got no romance in your soul, Dean."

Dean stooped and scooped up the empty lighter fluid bottle and threw it in the open duffle, zipping it closed and hoisting it over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well that's cos I'm a real man, Sammy. Not some namby pamby, new age metrosexual type."

Sam halted in his kicking of the rapidly cooling ash to give his brother an incredulous look.

"Metrosexual?"

Dean returned his stare defiantly.

"Yeah, it means a man who spends as much time on his appearance as a chick does."

"I know what it means, Dean. I'm just surprised you do."

"What? Why? I read."

"Yeah? Read what? Cosmo?"

Dean shrugged and muttered defensively.

"Gotta have something to talk to the girls about, Sam. Not like I can discuss my work, is it?"

"So you memorize 'Top 10 Hollywood Hunks' instead? Or are you more a problem page kinda guy?"

By now, there were only the barest hints that the brothers had ever been there and they turned and began the long trudge back to the car.

Dean sniffed grumpily as he was forced to practically jog to keep in step with his lanky brother. The action induced adrenaline high had given way to his previous flu like aches and sniffles and he knew it wouldn't be long before his entire concentration was once more taken up with putting one foot in front of the other. So, best get in the snark whilst he still had the energy...

"Not the problem page, bro. That agony aunt's useless. I wrote to her once..."

And he cleared his throat before continuing in his best _condescending older brother tone_,

"Dear Hilary, my geeky little brother is a Sasquatch sized pain in the ass with worse mood swings than a pre-menstrual succubus. How do I tell him his girly hair makes him look like a toilet brush without making him cry?"

He paused and smirked sidelong at Sam before continuing,

"And I still haven't had a reply."

In response, Sam lengthened his stride, throwing over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well this Sasquatch wants to wash the swamp muck out of his girly hair sometime tonight. So try and keep up Thumbelina."

Dean hurried after him, already slightly breathless. But he still managed to mumble,

"Probably just as well, she'd only want us to hug or something."

And then louder, after Sam's rapidly retreating back,

"And I am so having the first shower, Dude. It's my right as the oldest."

Sam didn't even slow as he yelled back.

"Yeah, yeah. Next toadstool we pass, you can tell it to the Pixie Council."


	7. Chapter 7

It's A Swamp Thing

It's A Swamp Thing by Bird2K

A/N: Sorry for the delay but shower scenes require a lot of research. And that research leads to injunctions and life long bans from all gyms in a 30 mile radius. Maybe other writers can manage without the court orders, but I'd say they just aren't as thorough as me.

Chapter 7Still Day 3: The Gratuitous Shower Scenes

The brothers trudged into the motel, trailing mud and foliage like a pair of swamp monsters with mange, Dean still sniffing and wheezing. Despite his earlier threats, Dean hadn't forced them to strip before getting in the Impala, choosing instead to cover her upholstery with some old towels and blankets from the trunk. So now, stopping at their respective beds they each took stock of their general stinky, crustiness and simultaneously eyed the bathroom door.

Gradually their gazes swung around until jade locked with hazel. For a brief moment all was calm and still as "The First Shower Debate: The Intrinsic Rights of The Oldest vs. The Extenuating Hair Care Needs of The Youngest" was silently waged through eye contact and brow movement.

Suddenly, everything was a blur of motion as both men leapt towards the swamp-odor-free sanctuary of the bathroom. Shoulders slammed, legs entwined and both men tripped and staggered in their graceless struggle to be first to clean off. Dean managed to break free of the wrestling match and made a lunge for the door, only to be caught by the elbow and hauled back, courtesy of his brother's Inspector Gadget-like, extending arms. The pair fell backwards in an uncoordinated jumble of mud flaked limbs and, hitting the nearest bed, they bounced onto the floor. Dean landed solidly on top of Sam who emitted a startled "oof" of air and loosened his grip slightly. Ever the opportunist, Dean rolled to the side and managed to flip over and get off Sam before he'd caught his breath, finally breaking the younger man's hold completely. Powered by the same kind of freak adrenaline rush that allows soccer moms to lift SUV's off their trapped kids, Dean pounced through the bathroom door, pausing long enough to throw his brother a triumphant smirk, before he slammed the door behind him and punched the lock. He called through the thin plywood.

"Better luck next time, bitch!"

Sam's frustrated yell of, "Jerk!" was nearly drowned out by Dean's gloating laughter. That only increased with the sound of something heavy, most likely a boot, hitting the other side of the door at the same height as his face.

Still grinning, Dean switched on the light and opened the hot tap fully, inhaling gratefully as the steam filled the bathroom and helped to clear his traitorous sinuses. His smile dipped slightly as he caught sight of his reflection in the rapidly misting mirror; his face was pale beneath the streaks of grime and the bags under his eyes were testament to his disturbed sleep patterns. His usually neatly styled and perfectly gelled hair was sticking out in 10 different directions and contained bits of leaf and twig as well as the ubiquitous swamp muck. And the less said about his clothes the better!

He sighed heavily as he began to remove the layers of ooze infused material while wondering how many washes it would take before they would finally be totally Dismal-free.

Shrugging he thought, _Ahh, screw it! Let it all dry out and then salt and burn the whole freakin' lot of it! Never know what might be living in the stuff!_

By the time he was down to his boxers, his equilibrium had returned and he found himself cheerfully humming "Ramble On," as he turned the cold water tap the barest fraction to take the temperature down from 'boiling lava' to merely 'scalding.' Satisfied that the water would only turn his flesh a bright lobster pink and not actually melt it from his bones, he slipped his underwear off his hips and down his legs, kicking it off to join the pile of clothes in need of imminent combustion. Taking in another large lungful of steamy air and holding it, he stepped into the shower and immediately tilted his face up into the hot spray. Relishing the feel of the burning pinpricks of water, he slowly released his breath and allowed all of his muscles to relax under the soothing rhythm, groaning happily at the immediate ease in tension.

Opening his eyes to search for the shampoo, the bathroom had a kaleidoscopic look to it when the water droplets caught on his long lashes. Blinking rapidly, he attempted to dislodge the clinging moisture and return his vision to normal. Locating the shampoo, he squeezed a generous amount into his callused palm and began to rub it into his scalp and hair, adding just enough water to gain a generous lather, which trailed down his neck and gathered over his broad shoulders. A roll and flex of his muscles sent it on it's way again, and it cascaded down over his wide, strong back before dividing into separate rivulets that ran down each firm buttock.

He lathered up again, determined to be fully free of any residual swamp crud, and chuckled as he used the shampoo to raise is hair into a foamy Mohawk. He leaned out of the shower, the cheap curtain clinging to his soapy backside, as he wiped the steam from the surface of the mirror over the sink. He grinned widely and winked at his reflection.

"Such a badass!"

He shook his head, still grinning at his own foolishness, before returning to the task at hand.

Grabbing the soap, his attention turned to the front of his body. Rolling the small bar steadily between his hands, Dean achieved a rich foam which he then worked into his grimy skin and aching muscles with firm, circular motions.

Turning his back to the spray he allowed his head to fall back once more, as the water rinsed the lather from his hair to trickle along the planes and valleys of his sculpted chest and tight abdomen. The heat was soothing and the steady rhythm of the water was lulling him into a blissful state of relaxation. Sighing contentedly, his eyes drifted closed as one soap slicked hand ran across his firm stomach and dipped lower, teasing at curls as a wicked smirk lifted the corners of his full lips. Only one thing could make this shower even more enjoyable...

A loud banging on the bathroom door interrupted his pleasantly hazy musings and he heard his brother bellow from the other side.

"At least leave some hot water for the guy who got wet saving your freakin' life! Asshole!"

Dean jumped, his eyes flew open and all thoughts of shower shenanigans were squashed at the sound of his brother's voice. He yelled back.

"Alright, alright! Jeez, I woulda thought you'd be in your Sasquatch element, getting back to nature, and all that crap!"

Dean continued, this time muttering under his breath.

"Ya'd think a guy could clean up in peace after reuniting Romero and Ghouliet."

He smirked at his wordplay and half-wished Sam would have heard. Not that he would have appreciated it. Dean could picture the eye roll now, condescending bastard, and was tempted to prolong his shower just for the hell of it.

Still, he supposed Sam had helped him out. A little bit. Frowning in irritation Dean quickly rinsed off the remaining bubbles and killed the water, throwing a last wistful look at the soap. The mess of twigs and leaves that had been rinsed from his hair and body had gathered in the drain of the shower, partially blocking it, which had resulted in a sludgy build up. As Dean moved to clear it out, an evil grin spread across his face and he stood up. Stepping from the shower, he grabbed a towel to quickly dry himself off. Once done, the damp towel was flung into the corner with the dirty clothes. Looking around, Dean realized that, in the kerfuffle to be the first to get clean, he hadn't brought his duffle bag or a change of clothes in with him. Shrugging, he picked a second clean towel from the towel rack and slung it low around his waist. Pausing for only a second to think it through, he picked up one of the two clean towels that were left, and threw that one around his shoulders, to soak up the water still coming from his damp hair, as it made a tickling trail down his chest.

Finally deciding he was ready, he marched to the door and flung it open with a flourish, almost dislodging Sam from his perch on the other side of the frame.

His lanky sibling gave a startled yelp, arms wind-milling out to help regain his balance.

Dean eyed him suspiciously.

"Dude, where you _listening_ to me shower?"

Flustered, Sam automatically reddened before stuttering,

"What? No...no, 'course I wasn't…I was just waiting for you to finish."

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow, as he surveyed the rest of the room pointedly.

"And what? There was no other place for you to _wait_ for me?"

Sam gave a sheepish shrug.

"Didn't wanna get anywhere else dirty."

As if to emphasize his point, flakes of dried swamp muck broke loose and fluttered to the floor with his movement. Dean stepped back, his nose wrinkling in disgust as a foul odor was released along with the flurry of detritus.

"Okay, stinkbug, you've made your point. Shower's all yours."

So saying, he moved further into the bedroom, gesturing toward the rapidly cooling bathroom with a dismissive wave as he picked his way through the trail of sloughed vegetation and dirty footprints, towards his duffle and blessedly swamp-free clothes.

Regaining his composure, Sam huffed,

"About time. Better be some hot water left, Dude."

"Don't worry, I left you some, Princess. Not like I wanna be smelling you now I'm all nice and clean."

Sam just grunted and stepped into the small bathroom, slamming the door behind him for effect. Turning around his eyes instantly fell on the pile of filthy clothing topped by a wet towel sitting in the corner and a muscle in his jaw jumped. He briefly considered throwing open the door to launch a few choice phrases at his slovenly brother over acceptable shared amenities etiquette. But he was too eager to strip out of his own dirty clothes and hop into the shower to start an argument, so he clenched his jaw tighter and swallowed his anger down.

It was when he bent to turn on the taps that he caught sight of the sludge blocking the drain and a low growl managed to crawl its way up his throat, to escape through his grinding teeth.

Casting around the tiny room for something to clear up the mess, he finally decided on Dean's already disgusting t-shirt. He picked it up cautiously, trying hard not to touch any of the crustiest parts, and then, wrapping it around his hand, he scooped up the pile of sludge and twigs caught around the drain. Closing the edges of the material around the revolting content, he secured it with a twist and flung it back into the nasty clothes pile again.

After one final check for any other vile gifts his brother may have left him, Sam finally relaxed enough to lean over and crank up the hot tap to max followed by the cold one to half. Rising, he tore off his swamp-stiffened clothes and dropped them on top of his brother's discarded things, before he checked the temperature and then stepped gratefully into the spray. Even lifting the showerhead onto its highest position, Sam could not fit his entire 6'4" frame underneath the pounding water and he was forced to lean forward, bracing his hands on the wet tiles in order to wet his hair. Still, he allowed a contented sigh to escape as he felt the water hit his shoulders and the back of his head, running over his face and hair and down over his lanky frame taking all of the surface grime with it.

He ran long fingers through his bangs, lifting them from his face and pushing them back with the rest of his hair and then reached for the shampoo. He deposited an ample dollop into his large palm before massaging it into his unruly mop. Sensitive digits worked the lather through the hair and onto the scalp with a light, circular motion and another happy sigh escaped him as he tilted his head forward to rinse off, feeling the tension wash away with the dirt.

Once satisfied with the state of his hair, Sam moved on to the rest of his fatigued and grimy body. Employing his extensive reach, he managed to open the bathroom cabinet and removed his shaving kit. Hidden at the bottom was a small bottle of fruity body wash he'd acquired as a free sample some months back. He had been saving it for a special occasion or when he needed a quick pick-me-up. Thinking back over the past couple of snot-fuelled, swamp filled days, he decided tonight was the night, and he broke open the surprisingly sturdy seal before depositing the entire contents onto his right palm. The exotic scents of pineapple and mandarin and...was that coconut?...were instantly released and he inhaled blissfully as he rubbed his long fingered hands together before applying the sweetly smelling, and gently foaming, liquid to his deserving body.

The shower gel had moisturising ingredients, but the addition of natural citrus, made it slightly acidic and it tingled pleasantly where it touched his bronzed skin. He rubbed smooth circles over his broad shoulders and firm pecs, then moved down over his well-defined six-pack, before he swept around to his back at his hips, and down over his buttocks. Bending forward his hands continued their downward glide over muscular thighs, pausing to rub more firmly into his aching calf muscles. Finally he stood again, and moved the showerhead from its fixed position, so he could, reluctantly, rinse the rich lather from his body. He finished just in time, as an icy stream suddenly replaced the previously warm water. He bit back a gasp of shock as he fumbled for the taps.

It was only as he went to climb from the shower that he noticed the towel situation. Or rather, the lack of them.

Sitting innocuously, all by its lonesome self, was one, teeny, tiny hand towel, where he knew there'd been a pile of at least 3 good sized towels earlier this morning. Where had all the others disappeared to?

Dean!

Sam's eyes narrowed and the one remaining towel was subjected to a wholly undeserved death glare, which would have seen it running off in terror to join its missing comrades, if it had not been an inanimate object and thus incapable of sentient thought, let alone action.

Even with the door closed, the heat from the room was rapidly dissipating and Sam shivered where he stood, naked and dripping and trying to will a big, fluffy bath towel into existence using the power of his mind. He had yet to discover the extent of his psychic gifts but after a few minutes of intense concentration bought him nothing but a twitching muscle under his right eye and the beginnings of a headache, he concluded towel materialisation wasn't one of them. Defeated, he reached for the hand towel and began the slow process of drying his large frame with such a tiny cloth. In an effort to keep his mind from despondency, or the possible risk of hypothermia, he occupied it. First, he listed all the ways in which he could exact his revenge on Dean, and second, he thought of all the names he would call his brother as he did so.

Eventually he was dry but, having brought no clothes into the bathroom with him, he was forced to attempt to wrap the small, damp and by now thoroughly hated, towel around his waist. Of course, it didn't quite reach, so Sam used his hand to hold the edges firmly in place at his hip. He strode to the door, flung it open, and stalked into the room in a cloud of steam and self-righteousness. Only to find his brother sitting nonchalantly at the rickety table, newspaper spread out in front of him but concentration seemingly centred on the food he was practically inhaling.

Finally becoming aware of the evil eye directed at him from across the room, Dean's attention shifted. Glancing up from his sausage sandwich, he did a double take.

"Dude, put it away! I'm tryin' to eat here!"

Sam stood, his jaw twitching and his muscles trembling with suppressed anger. He eventually managed to grind out his accusation from between clenched teeth.

"You used all the towels."

"Oh? Did I?" Dean's tone was vague and nowhere near the vicinity of apologetic.

Somehow more words made it past his tightly held jaw as Sam stared pointedly at his bed.

"Yes. You did."

Dean followed Sam's gaze to the pile of wet towels dropped carelessly onto the younger man's bedding before sliding back up to look at his simmering sibling.

He raised an innocent brow.

"Ooops."

Sam let out a low growl, which wouldn't have sounded out of place coming from a particularly territorial black dog.

Finally recognising the signs of an imminent explosion, Dean attempted to make peace.

"Sorry bro. Guess I got kinda carried away. It's just it felt so good to get clean and warm after the whole, y'know, near drowning thing."

He gazed up at his ridiculously tall, incredibly angry brother through lowered lashes, trying to gauge how well the sympathy card was going down.

Sam's jaw remained set, his eyes steely. He looked about 3 seconds away from crossing his arms over his chest to complete the look of "I'm not buying this." Probably the only reason he hadn't already was the fact he would have to let go of the towel.

And, dear God, Dean had to stop that from happening!

Deciding he might need a little more by way of a peace offering, he indicated the second brown paper bag next to his own half eaten sandwich.

"Got you some food. Of course it's probably cold by now. Guess I did leave you enough hot water, huh, Sammy?"

His brother's eyes narrowed slightly at that, and Dean paused briefly to consult with his internal "Sam Twitch Reader" to translate the possible meanings. The results were inconclusive.

"Coffee?"

He offered, hopefully, and watched nervously for a reaction.

A muscle in the surely-that-must-be-painful-by-now clenched jaw jumped and his right pectoral muscle flexed slightly.

And, hang on a second, why the hell was his brother still standing there wrapped in nothing but a hand towel, anyway?

"Sammy, dude, seriously, I'm sorry about the towels man but..."

"And what about the pile of filthy clothes?"

"What? Oh. Well where was I gonna leave 'em? Didn't want 'em contaminating the bedroom."

His brothers continued stony silence had him amending slightly.

"But yeah, I guess I could have bagged them up or something. Still, don't you think..."

"And the disgusting mess I had to clean from the drain?"

Dean fought hard to control the smirk that attempted to emerge.

"Well, I didn't want to use up anymore of the hot water rinsing round the shower and I figured you'd just get it dirty again anyway, so..."

He shrugged in a "what's a guy to do" kind of way.

"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry about the towels and the clothes and the dirty shower, man. And I'll understand if you wanna carry on trying to freak me out with the whole psycho stare thing. But, Dude, please, could you at least put on some freakin' clothes first?"

Sam finally moved, jolted from his state of self-righteous anger by the sudden realisation he was standing in a none-too-warm room, glaring daggers at his brother, whilst wearing nothing but a teeny, tiny towel.

He huffed a noise of indignant embarrassment as he swept haughtily past his still seated brother and started rummaging around in his duffle for some clothes. Dean gave an exaggerated sniff as Sam wafted past and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Dude, why'd you smell like a Pina Colada?"

Refusing to dignify that with a response, Sam kept his back to the older man who, by the lip smacking sounds of it, had returned his attention to his previously abandoned sandwich. Sam quickly located and pulled on boxers, sweatpants and a t-shirt, before walking over and dropping himself down in the other chair. Grudgingly, he reached a long arm across the table and snagged the remaining bag and warily eyed the contents. He was pleasantly surprised to find a lack of grease and an abundance of green leaves and tomatoes. His stomach grumbled loudly, a reminder that it had been a long time, and an even longer hike, since dinner. He took a large bite of the chicken salad sandwich and stifled a happy moan by pretending to clear his throat.

Dean looked up expectantly from the newspaper spread out in front of him. His own food was now nothing but a happy memory and a small scattering of crumbs. When no further communication seemed forthcoming, he dropped his attention back to the paper, idly scanning the obituaries as he tapped out a beat with the pen in his right hand.

Just as Sam was about to rip the pen from his grasp and snap it in annoyance, Dean let out a triumphant, "Aha!"

"What?"

"Think I've found our next gig, Sammy."

Grinning broadly, Dean flipped the page around for his brother to read, tapping the obit he had just circled.

Sam scanned it briefly. Then frowned and read it again. He looked up at his brother's expectant face.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah!"

"You think this is our kind of thing?"

"Absolutely!"

"An 87 year-old man dying of a heart attack?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Unusual circumstances."

Sam quickly re-checked the text.

"I don't see..."

Dean flicked back a couple of pages in the paper and tapped at a small article, tucked away near the bottom of the page.

What a Way to Go

An 87 year-old businessman, who has yet to be officially identified, died during a private lap dance at the Boom-Chicka-Boom Club in Las Vegas on Saturday night. Witnesses say it appeared to be a heart attack that killed the man. He was not known to be a regular patron. This is the third such death in the past month at this club. No one from the Boom-Chicka-Boom Club was available for comment.

Sam carefully tore around the article and then turned the newspaper's pages back to the obits page, to cross check the facts.

"How do you know this is the same guy?"

"Same date, same age, and this guy 'died while on vacation in Nevada.' What the hell else is there to do in the desert, Dude?"

"Okay, so even if this is the same guy, and I'm not saying it is, I still don't see why this is our kinda thing."

"Are you kidding me? Look, I can be cynical with the best of 'em regarding praises sung for the dead. It's all a load of hypocritical bull. There aren't many obits that read 'Thank God he's dead! Funeral's Thursday. All those wanting to dance on the grave, please wait until this weekend and get in line behind me.' But that particular obit screams, 'pillar of the community,' and even if he wasn't, he's still the third guy to die like that, in the same place, in a month. We've checked out less, Sam."

Sam sighed and sat back in his chair. He finished eating his sandwich as he mulled over the possibilities. Chewing thoughtfully, his gaze flitted around the room before it finally came to rest on the newspaper again. Swallowing the last bite and washing it down with the, by now, lukewarm coffee, he finally met his brother's earnest gaze.

"And this isn't just an excuse to go to Vegas?"

Calling on years of practice, Dean managed to hide his smirk and look offended.

"Dude! Would I?"

At Sam's pointedly raised eyebrow, Dean winced slightly,

"Okay, yeah, maybe I would. But, you gotta admit, Vegas, with your freaky powers and my innate gambling skills, we could clean up."

Suddenly realising that probably wouldn't be the winning argument Dean changed tack.

"And, man, you gotta admit, even a desert is sounding good after all this freakin' swampland. So, whaddya say? Wanna go interview some hot strippers about suspicious deaths? Come on Sammy! Not like the job has to be all stumbling around in marshland playing Cupid to Casper. Let's live a little."

Sam pursed his lips and frowned. He really didn't want to let Dean off after the whole towel incident... but, real hunt or not, he could see definite possibilities in a trip to Vegas. Standing suddenly, he grabbed his duffle in one large hand and started trawling the room, packing his stuff as he went. Looking up, he grinned at his brother's surprised expression.

"Man, what are you waiting for? Those hot strippers aren't gonna interview themselves."

Dean scrambled hastily to his feet and started stuffing clothes randomly into his own duffle, as if he was afraid his little brother might suddenly change his mind. But the younger man just continued to grin as he methodically folded and filed his meagre possessions.

Payback's a bitch, but then, so was Sam. And Dean, distracted by the bright lights and scantily clad women in Las Vegas, would be a sitting duck.

The End

Story End Notes: Hope it was worth the wait. Many thanks for reading!


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